#openedbooks

don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here?

Scene of Deluge (detail) by Joseph-Désiré Court, 1827.    /     Dreamland by Segovia Amil.     /     Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

     𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙎𝙐𝙉 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙈𝙎 her skin, vibrant enough to heed off what remains of the night’s chill. the city’s markets are already teeming with merchants and buyers alike harking goods from all along the south, stalls all but overflowing out into the streets. she’s come to enjoy visiting the markets herself rather than sending servants off on errands with tedious lists, embraces the chance for at least some of the anonymity that disappears once one’s been made a court mage. 

    turning down a winding street in her usual route, celine pauses before a row of herbalists, brow briefly furrowing as she catches a man inspecting the trader’s wares carefully. there’s a precision in the way he examines each herb or flower that wouldn’t be out of place at aretuza and for that, celine waits under the trader moves just out of earshot. “i wouldn’t buy from him if you’ve any interest in accomplishing anything with those,” she huffs a breath, gesturing loosely towards the herbs, “he overcharges and sprays them with water just before the markets open to try and make them seem fresher than they are.” 

    “you ought to try some of the vendors outside the city gates, near the inns instead if you have the time.” what goes unsaid is that she’s learned this firsthand herself, with several botched potions the result. “if you tell the woman at the cockatrice inn that celine suggested her, she’ll give you a fair deal.” 

“Hello, Eskel.”

Yennefer is sure to keep her tone guarded and professional, but not entirely unfriendly. She has no personal grievances with the man---is actually quite sure he has more grievances with her, really, which he would not be blameless for. Her carefully maintained distance has nothing to do with Eskel himself, consequentially, but everything to do with the fact that aside from his being Geralt’s brother, she doesn’t really know the man, and she’s hardly involved with Geralt anymore.

But she needs a witcher, and she’ll tell him as much.

“I have a job for you. It’ll pay well; you can at least trust that, if nothing else I say.” She’s careful to keep her expression neutral, but lets slip a note of distaste at the thought of not being trusted despite everything she might have done to deserve it. In such times of irrationality, Yennefer almost wishes she were as stone-cold as everyone seems to believe. “I’m looking for a certain magical artifact for someone I’ve acquainted myself with. It’s said to be guarded by some sort of beast, though the descriptions are vague and cryptic at best. I’ve been offered 400 crowns to retrieve and use it; I’ll give you half for dealing the beast.”

send ✨  or ( ‘SPARKLE’ ) for me to tell you something i like about you,  your blog,   your portrayal,    your muse.

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄.      and have they not paid their all ?     what is left but their skins,     scarred and calloused,    the clothes on their back worn out and faded.     what is left but their    pride ?     a pride battered and bruised and left only as the fire that burns within their chests,    etched only into the harsh lines of their faces carved by exhaustion.     oh,    were he to return to the blue mountains,     who would he find ?     would his mother greet him still ?     would she recognise him at all,     from the young elf who left so many years ago with determination in his eyes and barely marred flesh ?     ciaran has not thought of returning home,     and a part of him fears the thought,    for he might find it empty,    burnt down and plagued by wraiths.    no,    there is no home there any longer.

they have paid prices unimaginable.     so many have they lost,    the names escape his memory,     and it is for the best.    to remember them all is to leave a weakness exposed,    to open oneself up for the agony of grief piling and piling.     𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗮𝗿:     people fall.    it is an inevitability ciaran has long since been prepared for,     yet he seeks to drag it out for as long as he may.     to die in pursuit of freedom is the only way to die in honour,     even if his path has long strayed from morality.     he knows the necessity of sacrifice.      but is it not love for his kin that drives him ?     to be entirely immune to grief    –––     perhaps it is as much a weakness as it is to be overcome by it.     he allows it momentarily,     places his palm to the earth and lets it flow.     [ the tears do not come.    he has not wept in a very long time. ]

ciaran’s bandaged arm burns when he shifts to lay the flowers atop the unmarked graves.     it is rare:   to have the luxury of mourning.    of honouring sacrifice.    he wants to make it count.

when the elf returns to camp,    his clothes are stained with fresh soil,     hands only clean because he washed them in the nearby stream,    delighting in the numbing chill of the snowmelt.     he sits down in silence,    and knows the mood somber.     but when a hand comes to rest upon his shoulder,    an unspoken question rings in the air.     ciaran need not turn to know its owner,     yet he does nonetheless,     meeting iorveth’s gaze but long enough to attempt to dispel the concern.     the warmth that seeps through his clothes,    radiating from the other’s hand,    it is grounding.    you have grieved,    now you must continue.    shake it off,    look forward.     he barely catches the exhale that threatens to burst out of him,     only for it to hitch in his throat.    he coughs.

𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚆𝚂 𝙼𝚄𝚂𝙴𝚂 𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄

aside from ciaran & iorveth who i am still incredibly fucking excited over, i'd also really like ciri interacting with dandelion and regis. i've sent something for eskel before and i adored that reply, just the entire wolf family makes me sooooo [ cries into my hands ]

also gezras and my elves ??? nods nods. i'm very much looking forward to seeing your take on him ! i'm looking in ragna's general direction for witcher ending ciri

there is relief:      for before him stands the one he would follow to the depths of hell,    alive and seemingly well.     yet he sees the pain and it has him swallow,     has the words lodged in his throat.      you mustn’t blame yourself,    he wants to say.     i’m glad you didn’t come for me.     did i not swear an oath to you,     all those years ago ?

he learned only recently the amount of time that has passed since his capture,     spent half of it in a delirium somewhere between waking and dreaming,     and has to admit he had ached to go.    there came a point when it would have been better,    for everyone,    if he had.     yet there has always been a pride too deep rooted,    and whether it be the mage’s brief intervention,     or the fear of the witcher’s warning coming too late,    𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗,    𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍.     until he had enough strength to flee,    weak on his knees with hands still bound but armed with intricate knowledge of the woods,     ciaran fled in the dark of night,     to hide in a cave,    and knew there was a chance he might never wake up.     let death come in the woods,    at least,    where the birds shall sing in mourning,    he had thought.

death did not come,    and instead gentle hands brought broth to his lips and unbound his hands.    the half-elf who found him had been kind,    even with a delirious and,    at times,    curt ciaran.     as soon as he was strong enough to keep himself on his feet,     he left in his search to find his unit,     for only a squirrel knows their kind’s paths.

there is no joy in iorveth’s laugh,   and ciaran aches knowing there has been little of it in the past few years,     knowing it was he who brought such anguish.      but he grounds him,    hands heavy on his shoulders,     and a stern sort of gratitude seeps into ciaran’s eyes.      ❛   i’m glad the witcher was to be trusted.      i was worried   ...   ❜     he breaks off and there is true relief,     if shrouded in an attempt to regain his old stern tone.    𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴,   𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺,    𝘯𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴.     his nod is light.      ❛   let us go,   then.   ❜      the ghost of a smile flickers on his lips,     though it does not quite reach his eyes.     a brief touch to iorveth’s arm,    the elf makes to set off.     ❛   i’ve not come all this way not to stay.   ❜      you know i could never desert you,    his eyes say,    even as his lips fail to.

I'd like to think I've explored this very thoroughly in both of our ship threads!

In terms of just kindnesses directed at himself, kindness is someone asking him about himself, whether it's his past or his opinions. It's someone listening to what he says and allowing him to have a voice in the room even if he's a softspoken person. It's waking up from a nightmare and finding someone there next to him, refusing his apologies for disturbing them. Among other things.

In terms of kindnesses Cahir gives to others: rapt attention, and unyielding devotion. The kindest thing in Cahir's mind that he can do for others is to make and uphold promises.